


keep making me weak

by marcel



Series: throwing kinks at the dartboard [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Collars, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Kink Negotiation, Light Bondage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Season/Series 04, Praise Kink, Quentin Coldwater Lives, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:55:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26092219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marcel/pseuds/marcel
Summary: "That got me thinking," Eliot hums, sliding his fingers down the edge of Quentin's jaw, "about some other things that you might be more... receptive to than I originally thought. Other things you might like the feeling of."His hand slips lower and lower, then stops just short of dipping under Quentin's shirt, his palm wide and warm on the side of his neck. Quentin can't help swallowing against the gentle pressure. "Like what?"or: Sometimes one thing leads to another.AKA The Collar Fic.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: throwing kinks at the dartboard [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1894033
Comments: 41
Kudos: 160





	keep making me weak

**Author's Note:**

> back at it again with the softcore kink fic that ends up way longer than i originally anticipate i guess! so way back in november i saw [this comic](https://twitter.com/illumelnati/status/1186300455510368257) and then 3 sentences of this idea sat in a gdoc for 9 months, until like 2 weeks ago when the stars aligned and i decided to take a break from a different fic to make it real. its, uh, extremely self indulgent more than anything so please never look me in the eye ever again. thanks so much.
> 
> because im gay and need visual representation [here](https://www.restrainedgrace.com/collections/rose-gold/products/black-classic-bdsm-collar) is the collar i had in mind. thank u julia for once again providing a 0 judgement proofread and reminding me that horny ppl have rights, and thank u nicole for being the human embodiment of I Know This And I Love You dot jpg. and also for everything. its all for u.

One thing that Fillory does not have, even after everything, is wi-fi. It's actually not as much of a problem as Quentin definitely thought it would be at one point, but some days the fact is more inconvenient than others - and often moreso for Eliot than it is for Quentin.

Despite the general smooth sailing they've been able to enjoy after everything, they both do sometimes have— not backslides, exactly, but… bad days. Brain-breaking days, on Quentin's part, which are fewer and further between now than they once were, but still, like, a thing he has to deal with. Or _they_ have to deal with, as Eliot so often corrects him. 

Eliot's bad days are different, though. They don't string together like Quentin's sometimes do, with a mounting numbness he can feel coming. It's doubt that creeps up on him instead, almost unnoticed until it's hitting him all at once - that the axing didn't take, no matter how much he trusts Margo's word, or that his body still isn't entirely his, making him avoid every mirror in the castle and get reluctant to touch even Quentin. It never lasts long before it's gone again, though, an almost spontaneous disturbance that Eliot seems to find annoying more than anything. (And he always makes up for every time he didn't reach out.)

That spark of ire for the irregular but recurring reminders of his possession results in a spite-fuelled coping mechanism wherein Eliot spends the day after a bad day choosing things, changing things, clearing things out and ultimately making making decisions that are, while maybe trivial in the long run, indisputably his own.

Sometimes that means spelling all the drapery in their chambers into a new colour scheme, or getting Tick to change all the seating arrangements in the dining hall, or conspiring with Margo to plan some grand banquet for an imagined holiday, just to design a menu. Sometimes it means carefully watching Kady and Penny through the mirror as they go through his closet at the penthouse, making donation piles out of all the things he won't or can't wear again. And sometimes it means tugging Quentin through the clock to spend the day sitting on the living room couch with Julia's laptop, basking in the reliable wi-fi and deleting the 3045 accrued emails in his inbox.

Quentin, who hasn't checked his own email in more months than he cares to think about, settles beside Eliot with a book, one of the ones still left in his room here. It's not like Eliot needs his opinion about any of this - even with the drapery he definitely only asked for Quentin's input to be polite - but it's still nice to just sit with him for a couple hours while he works through all his restless decluttering energy. And he thinks Eliot appreciates him being there too, even just for moral support. Otherwise he probably wouldn't let Quentin press into his side, or actively encourage him to do so with one arm over his shoulder, or make it harder and harder to focus on his book by trailing a hand through his hair over and over. But it's not until Eliot starts nuzzling against his ear that Quentin truly gives up. 

"Finished already?" he asks, letting the book fall closed in his lap rather than try to reread the same sentence for the third time.

Eliot hums low in his throat, nosing across Quentin's cheek. "What if I bought a Chemex?"

It only takes one glance at the laptop screen to confirm that Eliot is well and truly done with the inbox cleanse, and has since moved onto browsing for kitchenware. This might as well be part of the routine too, by now. "I thought Penny got you into French press coffee," Quentin says, shifting to peer at the hourglass-shaped thing Eliot is circling the mouse around.

"True," he allows, still leaning his temple against Quentin's, "but what if, and stay with me here— what if it was a Chemex made of handblown Croatian glass?" He scrolls through the provided images, like a 360-degree view of the thing will make Quentin understand.

It doesn't. "Fillory doesn't even have coffee beans, and you want to spend a hundred dollars on a pour-over coffee maker?"

"We can import them, or something," Eliot says easily. "And look, what about this?"

He switches tabs to a listing for a slightly different hourglass thing, and launches into a whole pitch about it, completely oblivious to Quentin biting back a smile. Talking through it is probably more to help himself make a decision than to actually sway Quentin either way, but Quentin is more than fine with just listening to his voice while he does it. Even if most of the spiel goes completely over his head.

He lets his eyes wander to Eliot's other open tabs, wondering how many other luxury kitchenware items he's been looking at, and— pauses there, when a word jumps out at him. _Collars_ , in a search tab towards the end. Beside that is _Leashes_ , and then, last before the rest are too collapsed to read, _Harness_. 

And. Well. Those first two together, with no context, are not immediately alarming. But having _harness_ added into the mix throws him a little. In fact, the longer Quentin stares at the other tabs, the more Eliot's voice seems to fade out as a specific thought starts to grow in his mind.

He's gotten pretty familiar with a harness recently. Intimately so, you could say. So maybe Eliot was looking for more things like that, and branched out a little. Quentin isn't sure if collars really fall into that same lingerie-adjacent category, but leashes definitely seem like more of a straight-up-bondage thing. If Eliot is looking up stuff like _that_ , he's either just curious - which is fine, but unlikely, considering how he and Margo talk about sex and kinks in that blasé way of theirs that makes it sound like they've tried just about everything - or he's actually, like, into it. Which is, again, fine, but the question is if it's something Eliot is looking to be into with Quentin.

It's not necessarily a bad thought. It's just kind of alarming to be hit with out of the blue, when Quentin's first experience with _lingerie_ was only a few weeks ago. If Eliot already wants to get him in leashes and leather and handcuffs or those weird sex ropes or whatever else is open in the other tabs— it's just... kind of a lot to think about. And that's without Eliot having even brought it up yet.

So maybe Quentin shouldn't jump the gun on getting riled up about it. He really tries to put it out of his mind for the rest of the day, but even once the laptop is closed and Eliot is heading out to fulfill Josh's extremely specific shopping list, Quentin still has a hard time not letting his thoughts stray back to those tabs. If Eliot senses anything weird when he's kissing him goodbye, he doesn't mention it, but Quentin thinks he might catch the edge of a frown just before he closes the front door between them.

It comes to a head when Julia invites him to get coffee with her, and then makes the mistake of asking what's wrong when he gives the cafe's French press a wary look. Quentin lasts about four minutes before it all comes out. Julia at least has the good sense to cast a muffling charm around them at the first mention of handcuffs.

She does not, however, seem nearly as concerned as he is. "Well, there have been worse things in my search history," she says on the way back, when Quentin pauses for breath.

"I know it's not even, like, _that_ extreme compared to some other stuff," he mumbles, picking at the lid of his coffee cup. "But I'm just— I don't know why I'm so stuck on it."

Julia gives him a doubtful look over the rim of her latte. "I'd guess it's because you're uncomfortable, Q. You don't have to be into any of that stuff just because Eliot is."

"I'm not… _not_ into it, though," Quentin tries, face burning. "At least I don't think I'm not? And I mean, I— I trust Eliot." Because Eliot knows what he likes, and what his boundaries are, and has never asked him to cross them. Besides, Quentin isn't even sure if this _is_ a boundary for him. "I don't know," he sighs, brushing his hair behind his ear. "Maybe I'm just stalling out over the mood whiplash from 'coffeeware' to 'bondage gear'."

Clearly trying not to laugh, Julia gives his shoulder a sympathetic pat. "I'll admit, it does seem weird to me that he wouldn't talk to you about it before going straight to the shopping cart."

Quentin shrugs weakly. "Well, I didn't actually see the, like, checkout page. Maybe he really was just looking it up."

Julia is quiet for about a block before she hooks her free arm around Quentin's to walk even closer to him. "Look, Q," she says, almost cautiously, "I really don't want or need the details of your sex life, but... have you guys ever experimented with stuff like that before? Getting tied up or blindfolded, anything?"

"Not… really?" Quentin supposes the harness might count for something, but that wasn't about bondage so much as... how he felt wearing it. And he doesnt super want to describe his lingerie to Julia in the middle of the street, muffling charm or not.

"Okay, well, if it seems really out of left field, maybe it's not what you think," Julia suggests. "You said you didn't see the websites, so maybe he's on, like... pet supply stores. Maybe he's gearing up to buy you a puppy, or something."

Quentin gives her a bewildered look. "Buy me a— you think he's looking for _dog_ harnesses? Dog leashes?"

"Yeah, why not?" Julia says with a shrug. "It's a big step, raising a pet together. Maybe he's been nervous to bring it up."

"Oh." That's… kind of endearing, actually, the thought of Eliot coping with his anxiety by trying to find a collar and leash that match, or a dog bed to go with the rug in their chambers, or something. It does seem like a very Eliot thing to do, to get all the aesthetics figured out before he's even raised the main question. "I... yeah," Quentin says slowly, nodding the more he thinks about it. "Yeah, maybe that's it."

"Sorry to ruin the surprise, I guess," Julia snickers, patting his shoulder again. "But if you're both freaking out about this, you should probably just talk."

Quentin agrees, already feeling bad for being weird about it earlier, whether Eliot had noticed or not. 

So when the two of them go back through the clock that night - or afternoon, in Fillory - he doesn't tag along with Eliot to deliver all of Josh's groceries. He paces around in their chambers instead, trying to plan out how he's going to broach the subject, but he never quite gets the words untangled. By the time Eliot returns and immediately starts changing out of his casual vest and tie and back into Fillorian finery, Quentin still hasn't made much headway, and just fidgets as he watches Eliot do up the buttons of a much-less-casual vest.

He's definitely saying something about a council meeting they missed and how he'll have to meet Tick later, but when he sits on the edge of their bed to pull his boots on, Quentin finally manages to take a breath and force the words out.

"Can we talk?" he asks, only realizing how abruptly he's interrupted when Eliot cuts off and blinks up at him.

"It _was_ getting kind of one-sided in here," Eliot says, a little wry, but he softens when he sees Quentin's fingers twisting together. "Of course, Q. What's on your mind?"

"I, um. I saw... I didn't mean to, like, pry, or whatever," Quentin starts, vaguely aware that he's already on the edge of rambling, "but I saw something earlier on the laptop, and I think I— overreacted. Like, 'going off in the middle of Julia's favourite coffee shop about bondage gear' level of overreacted." He tries his best not to cringe at the thought, talking even faster just to get it over with. "But I, um, I didn't really think about _your_ side of it, and I just want to say, before either of us freak out any further— If you want a dog, it's— it's fine. Great, even. We'll probably have to split custody between the penthouse and Whitespire, though, because Julia said so, and I guess we'll also have to ask Margo? Because it's her castle? And also, is it weird to bring non-talking animals into Fillory? Like, will that be some weird Goofy-Pluto situation, or—"

"Quentin— slow down," Eliot laughs, catching his hand and tugging him closer, until he's standing between Eliot's legs. "What are you talking about?"

"The coffeemaker," Quentin says weakly, deflating a little. "Your other tabs. Collars and leashes and stuff."

"Oh," Eliot says, and pauses for a moment before looking up at him again. "No, that was definitely bondage gear I've been meaning to ask you about. Do you want a dog, though?"

Quentin has a split second of extreme vindication, followed by extreme light-headedness as all the mental images he'd tried so hard to push away come rushing back to him. He zones back in when Eliot pulls him down to sit beside him on the bed, an apologetic smile on his face. "I think there might have been a small misunderstanding here."

"Just maybe, yeah," Quentin replies, in a much weaker voice than he means to. But Eliot's hands slide warm over his, grounding him a little.

"I wasn't trying to hide anything from you," Eliot says, serious now. "I just wasn't sure of the best time to mention it."

Nodding, Quentin looks down at Eliot's thumb brushing his wrist. No time like the present, he supposes, and clears his throat. "So... you want to— tie me up, or what?"

Eliot huffs a laugh. "Not exactly." Quentin gives him a confused glance, but he returns it almost amusedly. "Okay, look— I don't know if I made clear to you exactly how hot it was when you dressed up for me."

Heat washes over Quentin's face at the thought, remembering the spark in Eliot's gaze, his fingers slipping under the harness. "I think you got the point across," he mumbles. "But what's that got to do with—"

He cuts off when Eliot reaches out to tilt his chin up, a smirk spreading across his mouth at the same rate that Quentin feels his flush deepening. "It wasn't just how you looked," Eliot goes on, moving his hand to cup Quentin's cheek. "Or that it was such a pleasant surprise. It was that you _chose_ that, unprompted."

"Well," Quentin manages, an image of Margo's pleased expression reflected in the mirror floating to mind, "there was a little prompting."

" _You_ decided that you liked it," Eliot points out. "You decided you wanted to show it to me. And that got me thinking," he hums, sliding his fingers down the edge of Quentin's jaw, "about some other things that you might be more... receptive to than I originally thought. Other things you might like the feeling of."

His hand slips lower and lower, then stops just short of dipping under Quentin's shirt, his palm wide and warm on the side of his neck. Quentin can't help swallowing against the gentle pressure. "Like what?"

Eliot looks back up at him, brushing his thumb against the base of Quentin's throat. "Like wearing a collar."

A flush crawls so quickly up his neck that Quentin is sure Eliot can feel the heat of it under his palm. He remembers Margo jokingly mentioning collars when he first tried on the harness, and how, at the time, it had seemed like a rather distressing step further than he was willing to go. Hearing it again now doesn't send the same spike of alarm through him, but there's still something— an uncertainty that makes him want to get up and pace again. Eliot's warm hand seems to hold him down, though.

He ended up liking the harness, of course, and all his nervousness about the whole lingerie situation turned out to be unnecessary. But he's not quite sure if a collar fits into quite the same category as all that. It doesn't really seem to have the same function as lingerie, for one thing. What's sexy about a dog collar?

"For— for what, like, roleplay?" Quentin asks, his voice much steadier than he thought it would be. "With, um, a leash and stuff?"

Eliot shrugs, taking his hand back. "If you're into that, sure."

"I'm… I don't know." Getting tugged around by his neck doesn't seem very comfortable to Quentin, and the idea of having anything pressing against his windpipe brings up an unbidden memory of hands curling tight around his throat— but he shoves that away, hard, and shakes his head. "I just don't want to— like, choking, or—"

"Then we won't do that," Eliot quickly assures him. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to - breathplay, or puppy play, or anything else." He ducks his head to catch Quentin's gaze again, looking a little apprehensive for the first time. "You're allowed to say no, Q."

But the thought of dropping it entirely isn't as much of a relief as Quentin expects it to be, and he frowns as something like disappointment seeps in instead. "I-I'm not," he says quickly, looking down. "I'm just— I'm not sure."

It's the same sort of embarrassed uncertainty that he had about the lingerie at first, picturing it in a way he's sure probably isn't right. But he wants to know how Eliot sees it. He tucks his hair behind his ears and swallows hard. "What, um… what _would_ we do?"

"With the collar? Whatever you want," Eliot says softly, taking his hand again and sliding their fingers together. "It doesn't even have to be a sex thing, really. You can just wear it and relax." 

That sounds a lot easier to deal with than everything else he'd been imagining, but… Quentin frowns down at their joined hands, running his thumb over Eliot's knuckles. "What about you? What do you, like, _get_ from that?"

"Well, I won't lie and say I don't want an excuse to ogle you," Eliot says with a shrug, smiling when Quentin flushes again. "But honestly? If you like it, that's enough for me." He tugs gently on his hand, drawing Quentin closer. "I want you to feel like— like you don't have to worry, when you have it on. You can just know I'll take care of you."

"You already take care of me," Quentin mumbles as he presses into Eliot's side - but that does sound nice. Part of him has been squirming this whole time with the urge to just go along with whatever Eliot suggests. There's another part of him, however, that knows Eliot would want him to think it over seriously, not just say yes because Eliot wants him to. And the sense of uncertainty is still teetering in him, weaker now but just as palpable.

He feels more than hears the short sigh Eliot lets out. "If you're really not sure, Q, we don't have to—"

"No, I'm sure," Quentin cuts him off, pushing up to look at him determinedly. "I want to try it."

He trusts Eliot, and he _does_ want to let him take care of him. He knows Eliot knows how. And if there's still some small, hesitant thing worrying in the back of his mind, it gets drowned out by the rushing in his ears when Eliot grins at him, and is forgotten about entirely when he leans in to catch Quentin's mouth.

So Eliot takes another trip through the clock, a few days later - hand-in-hand with Margo, which Quentin can't bring himself to be surprised about. Eliot had asked if he wanted to come along with them on their lunch date-slash-sex shop excursion, but Quentin had opted to stay home instead. He can barely think about browsing the Internet for anything bondage-related without turning bright red, let alone going into an actual physical store. Eliot had smiled at Margo like they'd both expected as much, and they'd both ducked in to kiss his cheek before disappearing.

Quentin tells himself he'll spend the afternoon relaxing, maybe take a look at the garden or just curl up in the Armory with a book to take advantage of the distraction-free environment, but it turns out he's just as good at distracting himself when Eliot isn't around to do it for him. His mind keeps drifting to what Eliot is doing— what he _knows_ Eliot is doing, what he knows he's looking for. He wonders if they've set out on the real search yet, or if they're, like, mapping out a specific route, or, even better, openly discussing it over lunch. Maybe Margo is offering her expertise on Quentin's tastes in— unconventional accessories, or whatever it's all called. Maybe Eliot is smiling and saying _Don't worry, I know what he likes._

After he spends almost ten minutes searching the shelves for a volume that's already in his hands, Quentin decides to quit while he's ahead, and leaves the Armory behind to take an early bath instead.

The near-scalding water forces his muscles to relax as he sinks into the steaming pool set into the stone floor, and has the added effect of quieting his thoughts, like the steam clouds up his mind as well as the bath chamber. He wonders, not for the first time, if there's something in the magically-heated water that makes unwinding easier. It's something he keeps forgetting to ask about, mostly because he's always so close to drifting off mid-soak - or because Eliot, when they're down here together, makes it almost impossible to focus on anything else.

Sure, Eliot has an equal appreciation for the drowsy relaxation the bath provides, and most of the time he's content to let Quentin sit back against his chest as they both half-doze in the candlelight. But other times the thick warm air has almost the opposite effect, and Quentin ends up crowded against the side of the pool with Eliot's hands all over him. Not that he's complaining.

He can still remember the feeling of Eliot's mouth on his neck only a few days ago - during a sort of Apology Bath, actually, at the end of a long, bad day of Eliot fighting himself. Quentin lifts one hand to trace over the now-faded bruises Eliot left scattered across his throat, recalling the sweet-sharp sting of it, the warmth of his tongue, and how his thumb had pressed just there— 

Then he pauses, blinking in the fading steam. They had gone to the penthouse for the email cleanse the day after that, and the whole coffeemaker-slash-pet adoption misunderstanding and ensuing bondage discussion had come later. And hadn't Eliot sort of insinuated, during that, that he'd been thinking about trying something new ever since Quentin accidentally sprung lingerie on him? So maybe it's been weeks of Eliot thinking about putting him in a collar every time he nosed against Quentin's neck, every time he pressed a kiss under his jaw or nipped at his throat.

And there's also something in the back of Quentin's mind that he's really trying not to think too hard about, something about what a collar _means_ , and if Eliot had been thinking about that when he suggested it. It's kind of an unmistakable symbol of— well, ownership. Or of some sort of claim, at the very least. Is that what Eliot wants? To _own_ him? To have Quentin _belong_ to him?

Quentin is pretty sure that thought shouldn't send as much of a thrill through him as it does, but it _does_ , and it's not until he feels a sluggish wave of heat sinking between his legs that he remembers Eliot saying something about sex - namely, that this whole collar thing didn't have to be about it at all. 

It takes a lot of willpower to get himself up and out of the water, keeping his thoughts firmly above-the-waist. It's not the most pleasant way to find out that the escape from the steaming bath chamber out into the hall is about the closest thing Fillory has to a cold shower, but it works well enough, he supposes.

Still, as un-worked up as Quentin manages to get on the trek back through the castle to their private rooms, it doesn't stop his thoughts from eventually winding their way back to Eliot. Particularly, how long he must have been thinking about this— this whole thing, collars and whatever else. It distracts him enough that he's mostly dried off by the time he even thinks about getting dressed, and even then he only manages underwear before he ends up sitting on the bed with a towel around his shoulders, absently touching his neck when the chamber door opens.

"We've returned," Eliot croons, his voice light and relaxed the way it always is after he's had a day out with Margo. "Q? Are you in here?"

"Bedroom," Quentin calls back, hoping it sounds less like a startled yelp than it felt. He has enough time to realize he's still barely dressed before the door creaks closed and Eliot's footsteps come nearer, but not enough to do anything about it.

"The mission was _very_ successful," Eliot tells him, between the sounds of kicked-off shoes hitting the floor. "Margo really wanted to be here for the unveiling, but she's getting some quality time with a new toy. She told me to give you her best wishes and the day off tomorrow, which she didn't extend to me, for some reason. Something about _bi solidarity_ , whatever. How's your day been?"

He stops in the bedroom doorway and finally sets his eyes on Quentin, who hasn't done much more than move from the edge of the bed to the center of it, one step into a half-formed plan to retrieve the bathrobe he left on the floor. Eliot leans back against the doorframe, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Were you waiting here for me?"

Quentin flushes, pushing his damp hair out of his face and forcibly unclenching his grip on the towel around his shoulders. "I guess I was, yeah."

Eliot stares at him a moment longer, then pushes off to approach the bed, still smiling. Quentin shuffles over as Eliot sits down beside him, relaxing a little when he leans in for a kiss and batting Eliot's hand away from his towel with a playful glare. He realizes belatedly that Eliot doesn't have the armload of shopping bags that he had been half-expecting from his previous experience with Margo's habits. There's just one small-ish box in his hands, tied up with a black ribbon.

"Is that it?" Quentin can't help asking.

Eliot glances down like he'd forgotten about it. "It is," he says, then places the box off to one side as he looks back at Quentin. "But we don't have to jump right in. Are you hungry? I'll let you get dressed, and we can go down for dinner."

Quentin frowns as Eliot starts to get up, and stops him with a hand on his arm. "Um. I'm actually— I mean, we can," he says hesitantly, "but I'll just be thinking about— about _this_ the whole time, so, can we just—" _Get it over with_ doesn't feel right, not when he's full of more anticipation than apprehension, now. "Can I just open it?"

Eliot looks surprised for a split second, then pleased. He gives Quentin a soft smile, reaching out to brush his thumb across his cheek. "If you want."

Quentin sits up a little, curling his legs under him as Eliot places the box in his lap and settles back to let him unwrap it. Even with his heart suddenly pounding, Quentin feels almost bad about tugging the delicate bow apart, but he forgets about that when he takes off the lid and sees what's inside.

Nestled in the cloth is a black leather collar with a gold ring attached to the front and a shiny buckle to fasten at the back. He lifts it out carefully, almost afraid to touch it at first, but the leather is thick and softer than he expects. He just stares at it for a bit, holding it in his hands, until Eliot breaks the silence. "What do you think?"

Quentin runs his fingers over the stitching, the cold metal, the smooth edges. What _does_ he think? "It's not a dog collar," he says eventually.

Eliot snorts. "No, it sure isn't. Do you like it?"

"It's, um. Nice to look at, I guess?" It's the same sort of design that the harness had, bold without being intimidating, simple without being dainty. Even the gold ring seems less gaudy up close - still unexpected, sure, but... enticing, in a way. Quentin wonders what made Eliot choose this one for him. 

"Why is the buckle at the back?" he asks instead, glancing up with a frown. "Isn't that, like, hard to do without looking?"

"Well, you're not supposed to put it on yourself," Eliot points out, smirking at him. "That's what I'm here for."

"Oh." Quentin probably should've figured that one out himself, considering— everything. "Right, because it's… yeah."

Still smirking, Eliot raises an impassive eyebrow. "Any other questions?"

Quentin gives him a halfhearted glare. "Did this cost more or less than your weird coffeemaker?"

"No comment," Eliot says smoothly, and leans over to tug the box out of Quentin's lap while he's distracted. He pulls the cloth aside to reveal two more leather straps, shorter than the collar but with buckles that match. "We got these for you, too. Wrist cuffs," he explains, when Quentin furrows his brow at them. "Margo was gunning for fuzzy handcuffs instead, but I thought you'd like something a little more classy than that. These can be clipped together, same idea."

Quentin isn't sure how he feels about that, just yet. "I'm starting to think you really do just want to tie me up," he says, a little weakly.

"I never said I didn't," Eliot teases, but he puts the box aside again and shifts closer to him. "One thing at a time. How are you feeling about this?" It takes Quentin a few seconds to remember what he's holding, and realize Eliot's pointed look is directed at the collar still cradled in his palms.

"Fine, I think," he manages, turning it over in his hands. The ring at the front catches the light, and even the soft leather seems warm with it - or maybe that's just because he's been touching it so much, running his fingers over it without realizing. His heart hasn't stopped pounding yet. "It's just… kind of a lot?"

"We can pick this up any time," Eliot says immediately, that small bit of apprehension returning to his face. "Literally whenever, Quentin. We don't have to—"

"No, it's fine," Quentin insists, quicker than he means to, and he flushes when Eliot cuts off in surprise. "It was hard enough waiting for you to come back today, I just— I don't want to be, like, anxious about it."

"Okay," Eliot says, voice quiet and careful. "So what do you want to do?"

And, well— maybe Quentin is a little unsure, and he's definitely blushing just looking at the thing in his hands, but he has to admit he's curious now, about what it'll feel like. The soft leather and the heavy ring. 

He looks up at Eliot, shy but determined. "Will you... help me put it on?"

Something soft and almost relieved breaks over Eliot's face. "Yeah," he breathes, the tension wiped away as he gently takes the collar from Quentin's hands. Quentin wonders again just how long he's been thinking about this. "Yeah, of course, Q. Here, turn around—"

Quentin lets Eliot manoeuvre him to sit a little closer, almost in his lap but facing away from him. He hears the buckle being undone, the slide of soft leather through the loop of it, and feels something in him flutter. Slipping the towel off his shoulders, he tips his head forward and waits to feel the press of the collar against his neck - but it doesn't come.

He twists to look back at Eliot after a few seconds, and finds him paused with the collar laid out between his fingers, just gazing down at it, stroking the leather absently. Quentin slowly turns to face him again. "El?" he prompts, quiet. "Is this okay?"

Eliot glances up at him after a moment and takes a breath, seeming ready to brush it off with nonchalance, but after meeting Quentin's eyes he lets it out. "Look, Q, I…" He pauses, trailing off, then looks down and starts again. "I've never been as sure about anything as I am about you. Knowing that you— that you trust me like this, like it's easy—"

"It _is_ easy," Quentin interrupts, frowning at him. He's about three seconds from pushing Eliot's hands aside and climbing into his lap for real, collars and new discoveries be damned, but Eliot lifts his head to smile at him, a little uneven, but soft.

"That doesn't mean it's not terrifying to think about, sometimes," he admits, reaching up with one hand to brush his knuckles across Quentin's cheek. "But I want to live up to that trust. I'm trying to. And this is part of that." He drops his hand and holds up the collar between them, like an offering. "I want this to be… like a promise."

Quentin's eyes flick down to the shiny ring and back up to Eliot. "Promising what?"

"That you're mine," Eliot says quietly, easily. "That I'm here, and I'm always going to be. That I'll take care of you."

Some heady emotion rises so quickly up Quentin's throat that he can hardly breathe through it for a moment. He really does shove himself into Eliot's lap then, pressing as close as he can for a kiss, and Eliot drops the collar to wrap his arms around him.

"I know you will," Quentin says when they break apart, breathless and a little wobbly. "I trust you."

Eliot closes his eyes for a moment, and Quentin imagines the words washing over him, settling in his chest. "Okay," he sighs, almost to himself, then lifts his gaze to meet Quentin's. "Okay, let me."

With a little help, Quentin extricates himself from Eliot's lap and turns away from him again while Eliot picks up the collar from where he'd discarded it in the sheets. He reaches over Quentin's shoulders to drape it around his neck, and Quentin does his best to sit still while he fastens it, snug but not tight.

"There you go," Eliot murmurs next to his ear, sliding his hands down Quentin's shoulders. The buckle presses a little cold on the back of his neck but warms quickly, and Quentin reaches up to touch the leather almost hesitantly as he lets Eliot turn him back around. "How's it feel?"

"Um… good," Quentin manages, after a second. It's just a gentle pressure - not really ignorable, especially when he swallows, but not bad, either. Not tight enough to restrict his breathing or hurt. It takes enough of his focus that his thoughts aren't racing anymore, or at least not running wild wondering how it's going to feel.

He can't see the ring at the front, but he can feel the cold metal against his fingers, and it brushes his skin when he tilts his head, trying to get used to the sensation. Eventually he lets his hands drop into his lap and looks up at Eliot. "Now what?"

"Whatever you want," Eliot says easily, but the way his eyes drag over him is almost heavy, like Quentin can feel the exact trail he's making across his skin.

Rather abruptly he remembers that he's still only in his underwear. And the collar, he supposes, but it's not like that does much in the way of covering him up. Eliot, on the other hand, is fully dressed, minus the shoes he discarded on his way in. It's not _uncomfortable_ , exactly - not like he hasn't been mostly-or-entirely naked in front of Eliot on a fairly regular basis for a number of months, now - but there's something about the imbalance of it that sends warmth prickling down Quentin's spine. He has to resist the urge to squirm.

Eliot seems to read his fidgeting as nervousness, but it's still a relief when he snickers and reaches out. "Come here, Q. Just relax."

Quentin shuffles over on his knees until Eliot can slip one hand over the back of his neck, stroking the skin just above where the collar sits and drawing him closer. "There's no rush," he murmurs, pressing their foreheads together. "We can just stay like this, as long as you want."

"Okay," Quentin agrees, a little too distracted by Eliot's fingers on his nape to come up with much else. Eliot breathes a laugh and nuzzles against his cheek, leaving soft, barely-there kisses all the way down to Quentin's mouth.

He hovers there for a moment, not quite brushing their lips together, until Quentin parts his to sigh or huff or— whine, he's not really sure - but Eliot takes it as a cue to finally press across the gap. It's warm and wet and slow, Eliot's tongue sinking into his mouth and out again, his lips lingering between breaths. He keeps one hand on Quentin's neck the whole time, eventually slipping down and following the band of the collar around to the base of his throat where the gold ring sits. He hooks a finger into it, not twisting or tugging, but Quentin still senses the gentle weight of his hand and catches himself pushing a little closer, clenching a fist in Eliot's shirt.

Getting used to the pressure around his neck is easier than Quentin expected, and so is relaxing, with Eliot humming into his mouth. He can feel his pulse beating against the collar at his throat, and that paired with the gentle rhythm of Eliot's lips dragging against his sets off a pleasant sort of buzz that reverberates in the back of his mind. He doesn't realize just how deeply he’d been lulled into it until Eliot pulls back, and he nearly whimpers at the loss.

"Good boy," Eliot says softly, letting go of the ring to slide his hand down Quentin's bare chest instead. Quentin isn't sure if he shivers from the touch or from the praise. "You okay? Want to keep going?"

Quentin nods as enthusiastically as he can with his head spinning. "Yes, I'm— I want to, yeah."

Eliot seems pleased when he leans in again. The thought makes Quentin's lips buzz. It also gives him an idea, so suddenly that he breaks away after only a few seconds.

"Can we try the cuffs?" he asks breathlessly. Eliot looks surprised for a moment and then smiles at him, pleased again, and Quentin feels delight wriggling in his chest.

It's dampened a little when Eliot retrieves the box and actually brings the cuffs out, but they look like the same soft sort of leather as the collar, up close. Eliot gently takes each of Quentin's wrists and buckles the cuffs with the same care he used for the collar, except this time Quentin gets to watch him do it. They're snug, but the feeling isn't as distinct as it is around his neck. He can't feel his heartbeat in them, either. But he supposes they're still kind of nice to look at.

The small gold carabiner clip Eliot shows him is nice too, and when Eliot asks if he wants to use it to link the cuffs together, Quentin agrees with only a tiny bit of trepidation.

"In front, like this?" Eliot suggests, holding Quentin's wrists together, "or behind your back?"

Quentin doesn't need long to think about it. "In front," he decides, peeking up at him a little sheepishly. "I still want to, like. Touch you."

Eliot smirks before he looks back down at the cuffs, sliding the clip between the metal loop on each to connect them. "Alright, how's that?"

Quentin gives it an experimental tug, realizing kind of belatedly that he can't do much tutting like this. Or much of anything that involves precision or finger dexterity. But it's not actually as anxiety-inducing as he thought it would be. He uses both hands to push his hair out of his face, which feels a little awkward and doesn't entirely work as planned, and gives Eliot a tentative smile. "Not so bad."

He expected a buildup of nervous energy from not being able to fling his hands around or fidget, but having them bound is kind of... calming. He can just drop them into his lap and not worry about where else to put them.

"Good," Eliot murmurs, brushing Quentin's hair back himself and leaning close for another slow kiss. "You're doing so well."

Quentin shivers again as Eliot's mouth trails down along his jaw. "I'm not really doing anything," he mumbles, clenching his fingers in the sheets between them.

"That's kind of the point," Eliot says against his skin. "You're not supposed to worry, remember?" But he pulls back to give Quentin an amused look, one eyebrow raised. "Unless there's something else you'd rather be doing."

Quentin swallows hard, his brain too fuzzy to really come up with anything beyond getting Eliot to touch him again. "What would _you_ rather me be doing?"

He doesn't expect the way Eliot's gaze changes, teasing flirtation replaced by something darker and hotter. It's suddenly hard to look away - not that he wants to, not when having Eliot's eyes on him lights a spark of heat at the base of his spine.

"I have a few ideas," Eliot says eventually, and Quentin has to stop himself from nodding eagerly. "But not for tonight. Some things should probably wait until you've had this on for longer than five minutes." He flicks the ring at the front of the collar, teasing again.

Quentin pushes past an unexpected swell of disappointment to speak up before he can move. "Okay, but— for next time?" He isn't actually sure he wants a next time until the words leave his mouth and Eliot's hand stills in the air between them, and then the thought is impossible to push away. "We can just, like, talk about it, right?"

Reaching out again, Eliot gently tilts Quentin's chin up with the tip of his finger. "If you want," he drawls, casual, but his eyes are still dark. "There _are_ a couple things I need your opinion on."

Quentin tries his best to keep from squirming. "Like what?"

Eliot hums, dragging his thumb across Quentin's bottom lip. Quentin drops his mouth open easily, almost automatically, and Eliot slowly presses two fingers inside.

It's soothing the same way the collar is, something to focus on. Quentin gets them wet without being told, curling his tongue around each, sucking lazily. Eliot's lips part just slightly before he composes himself back into a heated sort of nonchalance, watching Quentin like he's an interesting toy.

"I was thinking of putting you on the floor," he says, voice low. "Letting you get your mouth around my cock and just keep it warm for me." Quentin feels a throbbing heat settle between his legs at the thought. He sucks hard on Eliot's fingers and Eliot pushes them deeper, pressing against his tongue. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Quentin can't really say anything with his fingers in the way, but he can imagine it, the weight of Eliot's cock in his mouth, sitting still and just letting it rest there on his tongue. Maybe Eliot would put a hand in his hair, feed it to him little by little, press it all the way to the back of his throat. He feels saliva pooling under his tongue and swallows around Eliot's fingers. They're spit-slick when Eliot pulls them out of his mouth.

"Or maybe I'll get you a leash after all," he goes on, trailing his eyes down to the collar. Quentin wonders if he can see his breath stutter there. "Something to tug on, so you can't go far… I could tie you to the bedpost while I'm out with the court advisors." His gaze flicks back up, the teasing look returning. "And when I got back, I'd reward you for being so patient. You'd be good for me, right?"

Quentin nods even as heat spikes through him again, his skin sparking then Eliot's fingers travel down to the ring at the front of the collar. He still doesn't pull, but Quentin shifts closer to him anyway, nearly trembling.

Eliot huffs a laugh as he takes him in. "Oh, Q," he sighs, grinning as Quentin presses his thighs together. "You're really into this, aren't you, baby?"

"I just really, um," Quentin pants, light-headed with arousal. "I know you said it's— it's not always a sex thing, but—"

"A little late for that, yeah," Eliot agrees, and pushes him down onto his back.

Quentin squeaks as he lands on the sheets, then loses his breath all over again when Eliot comes to hover over him. He pulls Quentin's cuffed wrists down from where he'd instinctively curled them against his chest, like he wants to see as much of his bare skin as possible.

"Look at you," Eliot murmurs, his gaze heavy and hot as it follows the flush that spreads down Quentin's neck under the collar. "You're incredible, Q."

Quentin can only imagine how he must look, laid out and squirming, his dick hard and pressing a wet spot against his underwear, with Eliot's collar at his throat. One thing he knows for sure is that Eliot is too far away. "El, come on," he breathes, shifting his hips against the bed, arching up only for Eliot to gently push him back down. "I need you, I'm—"

"I know," Eliot hushes him, brushing his hair out of his eyes and ducking down for an infuriatingly short kiss. "Be patient, sweet boy. I'll get you there."

He leans back to tug Quentin's underwear down and off his legs, then settles between his spread thighs. Quentin nearly writhes against the sheets, reaching down to get one or both of his bound hands on his cock, but Eliot bats his fingers away to wrap his own hand around him.

"What do you want?" he asks, swiping his thumb over the wet tip and seeming to revel in the shiver that rolls through Quentin at the touch. "Tell me, Q. Let me make this good for you."

"I don't know, just— please," Quentin gasps, trying and failing to press further into Eliot's hand. "Just— touch me, fuck me, I want you— inside me, Eliot, _please_ —"

Another hard swipe over the head of his cock has him squeezing his eyes shut, and then, all at once, Eliot lets go of him. "Okay, turn over for me."

Head spinning, Quentin manages to roll over and shakily push himself up on his knees. It's kind of hard to prop his arms up with his hands bound together, but he gets to his elbows at least, and before he has time to worry about getting the rest of the way up, Eliot's hand slides down his spine. It calms him at the same time that it sets his nerves alight.

Quentin's knees are nudged apart and he feels Eliot settle behind him, and after a whispered spell, slick fingers pressing into him. He squirms against the intrusion, too worked up to decide between pulling away or rocking back into it. Eliot's hand drifts up between his shoulder blades to quiet him.

"Relax, sweetheart," he chides softly, sliding his hand over the back of Quentin's neck where the collar is buckled. He doesn't dig his fingers under the leather or try to tug him around, but just... rests his palm there. Like he wants Quentin to be aware of it, the touch and the collar both. "I've got you, let me open you up."

His fingers slide out of him and then in again, deeper, and Quentin does his best to keep still and breathe through it. He whimpers when Eliot curls the digits inside him, and again when he adds another, and by the time Eliot pulls his fingers out entirely Quentin is gasping against the sheets, trembling. He still manages to whine at the emptiness, clenching around nothing.

"El," he pants, dropping his head onto his forearms, trying to press back against him again, "Eliot—" For a split second Quentin feels the hard line of Eliot's clothed cock against his ass, but Eliot moves away, pressing gently on the back of his neck to still him. 

"Stay," Eliot instructs, stroking over the leather for a moment, and then the pressure lifts as he removes his hand and pulls away.

Quentin isn't sure if he meant him to stay still, or just stay on the bed, but he's definitely too weak and jittery to lift himself up again either way. His cock is achingly hard now, and the empty feeling is just as difficult to ignore. After a few seconds he can focus enough to hear the sliding fabric and clink of belt-and-zipper as Eliot gets undressed. Quentin keeps his head down, trying not to squirm in anticipation.

Eventually the bed dips, and Eliot's hands slide across his shoulders again, followed by the full press of his body all along Quentin's back. Relieved, Quentin arches against him, shivering at the warmth of Eliot's bare skin sliding against his.

"Good," Eliot breathes, his mouth suddenly at the side of Quentin's neck. He presses a kiss just above where the collar sits, sucking under his jaw while Quentin pants out a moan. "I knew you'd be good for me, Q, so good— come here, let me see you."

He helps Quentin up off his elbows and turns him around, sitting back against the headboard and tugging him into his lap with his knees spread over Eliot's thighs. Quentin wants to latch onto his shoulders for balance, but the cuffs stop him. He settles for spreading his hands against Eliot's sternum instead, curling his shaky fingers through his chest hair.

Eliot strokes down his back for a moment, giving him a chance to catch his breath. "Still okay?" he asks, peering up - Quentin being on his knees gives him the height advantage, for once.

"Yeah, I'm— yeah," Quentin manages, nodding. Being upright again centers him a little, makes it easier to focus on things other than how hard he is - like how hard Eliot is, and how he can feel his cock jutting up against his thigh. "Can we, um. Keep going?"

Eliot grins, settling one hand on his hip and reaching up with the other to hook a finger in the ring at the front of the collar. "Whatever you want," he murmurs, and tugs just enough to draw Quentin's mouth down to his.

At the same time the hand on Quentin's hip slides slowly down over his ass, spreading him open again. The first press of Eliot's fingers has Quentin whimpering into his mouth, but he keeps still, earning a hum of praise against his lips. Eliot lets go of the ring to guide his cock between Quentin's legs and nudge against his opening, and then finally starts to ease him down onto it.

Quentin breaks the kiss to groan at the stretch, at the heat of him as he presses deeper. He sinks down until he's almost seated in Eliot's lap, his legs trembling with the effort of holding himself up. His cock drips precome onto Eliot's stomach, smearing it whenever he tries to readjust.

"God, Q, you're so tight." Eliot rolls his hips underneath him, pressing his cock right up against his prostate for a long, bright second. Gasping, Quentin sinks down a little further, trying to repeat the movement. "That's it, sweet boy, come on."

They're pressed so close that Quentin can't do much but rock against him, helped along by Eliot's steady grip on his hips. He lifts his arms over Eliot's head and settles his cuffed wrists at the back of his neck, leaning in to pant against his mouth while Eliot praises him, whispering his name over and over. Quentin can feel his heartbeat pounding against the collar, reverberating through it along with every breath he moans out.

He's so wound up that eventually his legs are too shaky to work Eliot's cock as deep as he needs it, his hips jerking up involuntarily whenever he tries. He's close, still aching and dripping wet, but nothing he does is enough to bring him up to the edge. Eliot notices his frustration and slides one hand across Quentin's hip to his abdomen, teasingly close to his twitching cock.

"You're almost there," he urges, rolling his hips into him again. Quentin almost yelps at the spike of pleasure it sends through him, but he's trembling, too worked up to find his lost rhythm. He feels something embarrassingly close to the hot sting of tears building behind his eyes.

"Eliot," he whimpers, voice cracking, "please, I'm— I can't, I need you."

"I'm right here," Eliot says, both hands coming up to cup Quentin's face. "You did good, baby. Just hang on, I've got you." He kisses Quentin's gasping mouth, then winds his arms around him and carefully rolls him over onto his back.

Quentin's cuffed wrists keeping him close, Eliot hovers over him, bracing one arm next to Quentin's head and letting the other stroke soothingly down his chest. Quentin pulls his knees up, trying to grind himself down on Eliot's cock still pressed inside him, but Eliot starts to pull out before he can get any friction.

He whines in protest, eyes stinging again. "Eliot—" 

Eliot shushes him gently, reaching up to stroke the hair back from his face. "I know you're close, sweet boy," he breathes. "Just let me take care of you."

Quentin blinks the wetness away and manages to nod. He's still aching, still pulsing with want, but he trusts Eliot to give him what he needs. He always does.

Eliot pulls out of him agonizingly slow, until only the head of his cock is still inside and Quentin is fighting not to clench around the emptiness - then drives back in, hilting himself inside. He presses right against the spot that Quentin couldn't reach, filling him up completely with a bright burst of pleasure. Quentin nearly sobs with it, mewling as Eliot drags out and back in again, gasping at every thrust after that.

Once he's found his pace, Eliot trails his hand all the way down Quentin's chest and stomach right to his dripping cock, and finally wraps his hand around it. Quentin thinks he really might start crying for real when Eliot thumbs over the head right as he sheathes himself inside him again.

"You're amazing, Q," Eliot pants against his mouth, rocking his hips in the same rhythm that he strokes Quentin's cock. "You feel so good. I can't believe I get you all to myself— nobody's ever gonna touch you but me. You want that?"

"Yeah," Quentin gasps out, his entire body lit up, coiling tight. "I want to be yours, I want— I'm—"

"You are, Q. You're mine." Eliot presses his forehead into Quentin's, fucking into him fast and hard. "It's only you. I'd do anything, _anything—_ "

Quentin comes like that, crying out as his cock spills between Eliot's fingers, sparks tingling down to his toes. Eliot drives in even harder as Quentin clenches around him, barely pulling out anymore, just pushing in and in and in— and then shuddering and coming deep inside.

He doesn't stop moving though, and Quentin is distracted from the heat spreading within him when Eliot grinds against his prostate, still stroking over the head of his cock.

"Come on, sweet boy," Eliot murmurs. "One more, just for me." Before Quentin can register what he's asking for, or decide whether the overstimulation feels good or bad, he's wailing as Eliot milks another spurt of come out of him.

He can't really move, after that.

Eliot ducks out from under Quentin's arms and rolls him sideways into a more comfortable, less-bent-in-half position. Quentin gives a weak whimper when Eliot's cock slips out of him, but other than that he's too exhausted to do much. He lets Eliot brush his sweaty hair out of his eyes, watches him unclip the carabiner and toss it away before moving onto the cuffs.

As nice as they were to have on, Quentin is glad when the buckles are undone and his wrists are free. Eliot spends a few minutes gently massaging the delicate skin until he's satisfied that there isn't any bruising, and lets go. Quentin shakily tuts through a cleaning spell to take care of the sticky mess of come and sweat before letting his arms flop down against the sheets.

Eliot snickers as he stretches out beside him. "So I guess you're feeling just fine?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Quentin mumbles, shuffling closer to him. "Just tired. And, uh, wrung out?" He flushes. "But in a good way."

"I assumed so," Eliot hums, propping himself up with an elbow and smiling down at him. "When you, of all people, can't speak or move after sex, I consider it a job well done."

Quentin huffs a laugh. "I'll just have to keep in mind the recovery time when we do this again. I don't really think I can stand up yet, or—" He cuts off when he notices Eliot's furrowed brow. "What?"

Eliot shakes his head, his mouth curving into a baffled smile. " _When_ we do this again?"

"Yeah," Quentin says slowly, frowning at him. "We talked about, like, next time, didn't we?"

"We did, I just…" Eliot trails off, searching his face, then breaks into a pleased grin that he quickly tries to wrangle into something more restrained. "Well. I'm glad you enjoyed yourself."

"You did too, right?" Quentin asks, just in case.

"With you? Always," Eliot says easily, but at Quentin's unimpressed look he rolls his eyes and relents. "Yes, Quentin, I had a wonderful time trying softcore BDSM with you."

Quentin flushes again. "Good."

After a few seconds of quiet Eliot sighs and starts to sit up. "We should probably get you some water," he says, squinting across the room. "Didn't you have a towel, before— oh, wait." He turns back to Quentin, gently nudging his shoulder. "Turn over, let me get the collar off."

"Um—" Quentin catches his hand when he tries to reach for the buckle, not realizing how fast he's moved until Eliot gives him a confused and slightly concerned look. "Just… not yet," he says weakly, quickly letting him go.

It doesn't take long for Eliot to understand, and he gives Quentin an amused grin as he lies back down beside him. "You don't stop being mine when it comes off, you know," he says softly.

"Still," Quentin mumbles, reaching up to the gold ring, stroking across the metal for a moment before dropping his hand. "It's just… it's nice."

Eliot watches him for a moment with such a fond look in his eyes that it makes something in Quentin flutter. "Well, if you like it so much," he says, reaching out for the ring himself, "we could get you a nametag to attach. I was thinking one of those heart-shaped ones you can get engraved."

"Oh." Quentin expects a flood of embarrassment to rush through him at the thought, but it doesn't come. "Um… maybe, yeah?"

"What would you want it to say?"

"Just _Q_ , probably?" Quentin can't really tell if he's joking or not. He feels Eliot's fingers winding through the ring again. "Or— hm."

Eliot's eyes flick up to him immediately. "What? Pet names are on the table too, if you want. What do you think, _Darling_? _Baby_?" He grins, leaning closer to nuzzle his cheek. " _Sweet boy_?"

"I mean," Quentin says weakly, "no one would see it except you, right?"

"Maybe," Eliot hums playfully, pulling back to raise an eyebrow at him. "Depends what you're thinking."

Quentin swallows hard, feeling pinned in place by Eliot's fingers hooked through the ring, his hand resting on Quentin's chest. "Well," he starts, already feeling his face heat up, "you know how sometimes dog tags have, like, the owner's name and phone number?"

Eliot's gaze darkens, sparking hot again. "Oh, _Q_ ," he drawls, tilting his head mischievously. "What do you want? _If lost, return to_? _Property of Eliot Waugh_?" 

"This is all hypothetical, right?" Certain he's bright red by now, Quentin tries to cover his face, but Eliot laughs and lets go of the collar to bat his hands away.

"If you say so," Eliot sing-songs, leaning in to kiss him sweetly. "Depends how hard-up I am for birthday gift ideas."

Quentin gives him a serious look. "If you get me a personalized dog tag for my birthday, Julia will never let me live it down. Literally, never."

Eliot rolls his eyes. "I know, I wouldn't betray you like that." He ducks down for another quick kiss, humming for a moment before breaking it. "Although, maybe if it was from Margo—"

Quentin pushes up to catch his lips again, cutting him off. He feels Eliot grinning against his mouth even as he presses him down into the sheets, climbing determinedly on top of him - still a little wobbly, but Eliot is there to steady him. His heartbeat pulses through the collar, the pressure almost familiar by now - and so is the weight of Eliot's fingers hooking into the ring again, gently tugging him down.

**Author's Note:**

> i….. am gay. thanks so much here’s my [tumblr](https://aniallating.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/marcelucien_) have a good day


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